


Trophy

by fairie



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (2006)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairie/pseuds/fairie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mercer does not take kindly anyone making trouble for himself or his Lord. He makes sure to give them a lesson they'll never forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trophy

After a victory there were always spoils of war. There was a plethora of treasure to choose from – gold and jewels, hearts and souls.

The first choice went to the leader, the king. His choice had been made up from the beginning, and it was not much of a surprise to any when he pointed to a pirate with cocoa skin and mischievous eyes, that still glinted ever so, even after the events. As long as he would live to tell a tale, there would be a gleam in his eye that could not be taken away, not until the last time that his name was spoken would come and pass. For the Navy boys there was a healthy bonus of galleons, all which would be sent to an ailing mother or a loving sweetheart waiting for her beau to come. But the same man that had ventured away from those docs would not be the same to come back. The river of red that was spilled is enough for any man to go mad and settle for his best friend being a bottle of rum.

But a mention of bounty does not incur any reward for the man who has done the most work. Perhaps it is reward enough to make it through the war. But he has never looked forward to rewards, that which is thrust upon him for a job is well done. Instead, he would find pleasure in the tasks that were set forth for him; those missions that would come designed for him to be able to the make the most of them. Usually it was clear when those times came, and he had expected one after the hell he had gone through – that thing had nearly choked the life out of him. But a mention of his Lord and his wrath had silenced the beast, though he did not quite why. But it was not his concerns as to how he had tamed the creature.

And this mission, though it may have been a personal favour to his Lord, he knew he would have fun with this one. He had watched her in the shadows, watching her as the insecure girl blossomed to the ravenous Pirate that she was now. A blonde temptress and ravishing vixen – though as he watched her laying unconscious he could say that she’d had better days. A pale ghost, a memory of youth, of power – of things she’d never truly had, or perhaps just fleetingly. Beckett had seen to inflict upon her his own brand of justice for the adulteress, for a songbird had whispered her indiscretions to him. But his Lord rarely made a lasting mark on flesh, but instead on the mind, the prison of all men. Instead it was tasked upon him for to see what his Lord was truly capable of. He was the instrument of pain and suffering.

Cutler Beckett was judge and jury while he was executioner.

He watches as she awakes, the world no doubt hazy and disorienting after the damage that has been no doubt. It’s likely a surprise to her that she’s alive – but such a painless exit is not what is in the future of any enemy of Cutler Beckett. Her eyes flicker open and it is not a slow ease in to reality, first noticing the woollen blanket she lays on and its coarse fibres - as she struggles in her rope bonds her chest protrudes out like a common whore, though that is not an entirely inaccurate description of what she is. He can hear muffled mutterings but they are all in vain – there is no one to save her now, no chivalrous pirate to make things right.

The knife in his hand was anxious, and he kneeled down in front of her. She stilled at the sight of the sight and he thought that perhaps that Beckett had made a stronger impression on her than he would have thought. But that small amount of persistent light had yet to be extinguished, the anger and the rage – he would gladly channel that energy. He lowered the knife, cutting the fabric of her dress open, her only armour to protect her from the outside world. As the material fell to the side her slender body was proudly displayed, flawless and luscious.

But he felt no animal magnetism, no sexual draw to her. That simply wasn’t how he operated.

“I’ve been told to take special care of you.” There was a glint in his eye, predatory – but she could not imagine how this man could be worse than Beckett.

A gloved hand settled on her chest and he could feel her heartbeat, thumping loudly at his touch. There was no man or woman who did not fear him, though she had been primed rather well. “Quite a bit of trouble you’ve caused me, you know. Running around looking for you across the seven seas…” He murmured, a wry chuckle escaping his lips, but the words were more of an observation than a beginning of a conversation. The handkerchief stuffed in her mouth made that a little difficult.

He patted her head as if she were a child before rising, marching over to the table and grasping the stem of a green plant that had coarse-toothed leaves. “D’you know what this is?” He asked, moving back to her and kneeling down once again, brown eyes examining her body. So flawless, ever pristine. “It probably never graced your table. It’s for poor country boys, you see, and not for lovely little princesses such as yourself. But that’s not all. Do you see? Their hairs are like needles, and venomous as well. You’d never think it, at first glance, the dastardliness that is underneath. Much like yourself, Ms. Swann.”

There was an attempt at protest, her eyes widening with the ever flickering fight that was left in her.

A quick hand came down, the leaves coming hard against her skin and the needles breaking off into her flesh and causing her to close her eyes in pain. “Do you see that it isn’t so pleasant? A thorn in one’s side. Just as you’ve been for Lord Beckett.”

There were more muffled sounds and another whack came down upon her skin, leaving a red mark. “You’re not the first one to have been an inconvenience to him, but you will probably be the last. The reign of pirates is over. You will be the last.”

Her eyes widened, questioning for a moment.

“Oh, yes. Mr. Sparrow is on his way across the plane of the living by now. Him and Lord Beckett had a lover’s quarrel, as it were…” A dry chuckle escaped his lips, a sinking feeling come over Elizabeth. But he would not stand such unproductive emotions – he whipped her once more, bringing her attention back to him. “You could have been his wife, the wife of the most powerful man on the seas, if you’d begged him enough. You’d never have to worry your pretty little head over anything. All that flesh to go to waste…”

The effects of the poison were seeping into the skin, the first effects sinking in: a slight itch, an uncomfortable tickle – nothing to worry about, nothing to concern one self over. Then the needles were more keenly felt, a severe prickling sensation flowing through her body that quickly became an intense, almost unbearable point. She could almost feel as if the needles were digging in deeper and deeper into her skin, a stake being driven closer and closer to her heart.

“I fell into a bush of these as a child, while I was out hunting rabbits in private property. They were the protectors of the property, the wall to keep the peasants out. But we needed to eat, there was no choice, you see. You had to be clever and quick, instead. But someone else was hunting that day, looking for rabbits. There was a gunshot and my heart raced and I fled, scared that I would be the prey. I’d ran so fast that I tripped, right into a bush of nettle. It’s why my face is like this, a memory etched in lines. I’ve never forgotten, never. You can’t, every time you look in a mirror.”

Another strike, upon her stomach, making her starving more keenly felt – and the pain it throbbed ever so, but not yet the fear – the fear was but an afterthought to the pain.

“Do you feel it yet? The tingling at the back of your mind, like your body is asleep? A foreign feeling inside of yourself? I once knew a woman who was convinced there was a beetle crawling around in her brain. She swore she heard clicking noises every five minutes, on the dot. Do you know what happened to her?”

There was an inexplicable pause, as if he was expecting an answer, but when none came he continued.

“She ran into a wall, over and over. She wanted to bash her skull in, you see. Jumping wasn’t enough – you could live through that, and then what? You would be a cripple and then you’d never get rid of the clicking noise. There was blood smeared on the walls, splatters here and there. But it wasn’t the bashing that made it go away but the recoil. She fell, down on the floor and right through it, too, down onto the kitchen table where there were people eating.”

Elizabeth didn’t understand why he was telling her this, for there really seemed to be no reason at all. If anything, it was a distraction from her throbbing pain.

“You look ill, my dear. Feverish, really. So red and splotchy. Ugly.” He spat, sending the stem down upon her like a whip. “He would have married you, too.” He hissed, stopping for a moment and tearing some of the leaves off and hovering over her. “Just because you’re a pretty face with a pretty body.” A tense hand smeared the leaves over her face, muffled shrieks coming through the silk handkerchief in horror. Destruction of beauty, of the half of her that was still in tact. Her body may have been broken, but not her spirit, but the barbed needles tore away at her flesh.

“Just because you have noble blood.” He dropped the plant onto the ground and grasped his knife, slender and silver, making a cut at her hips, blood oozing out and staining the fabric underneath her. Her body writhed and wretched, the cut expanding and spurting out blood. It flowed, a river of blood; ever raging ever ravaging and never stopping. She would soon be a pale, hollow trophy.

“That woman was my mother.” It was but a whisper, soft and gentle – like a lullaby.

She would drain, the life and soul would all come out and then his Lord would see that it was only blood and bones that made the woman and nothing more. There was nothing more redeeming about her than the tainted blanket she lay on.

He twisted her and broke her until she no more resembled a person than a mangled doll did and tied the blanket, now a sombre burgundy colour then the rosy peach it had been. And it was only the moonlit streets of London that would serve as witness to this sanction as he carried her to the bridge. He glanced down, a reflection staring back at him, ever twisted and distorted – a helping hand from the other side. He dropped her in, sending her to Davy Jones’ Locker – a sacrifice to the ethereal ruler of the sea. Every ferryman needed a passenger, a companion – and he would never allow that to be his Lord. His Lord was too good for the likes of a monster that should only be whispered to little children to scare them. A Boogieman to warn of crossing with the sinister folk of the sea.

Instead, now and forever, she would be his little corpse bride.


End file.
